


No Less Or More

by ObsidianJade



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: #coulsonlives, Equality, Gen, In honor of National Coming Out Day, Interviews and press conferences, M/M, media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianJade/pseuds/ObsidianJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A press conference involving the Avengers, in whole or in part, was rarely a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Less Or More

**Author's Note:**

> This is, essentially, a one-hour fic. The idea hit me out of absolutely nowhere today, and the draft notes were scrawled down as I was eating my lunch, then barely referenced when I sat down to write it. It’s received a bare minimum of proofing and editing, so please let me know if you see any typos. 
> 
> I am posting this in a bit of a rush, because this is one of my rare In Honor Of stories, in this case for National Coming Out Day. 
> 
> Here’s a secret: I’m asexual. I don’t have any ‘coming out’ to do. I’ve never suffered for my orientation, for the simple fact of who I am. But for those of you who have endured, who have persevered, who have had the strength to stand up and say ‘this is ME,’ I applaud you and embrace you. You are the embodiment of strength and courage, and this, meagre as it is, is my gift to you. 
> 
>  
> 
> Warning for a minor instance of homophobic language (and a slight at conservative talk radio, who was using it). 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Avengers and all related characters are property of Marvel Comics, et. al., and I make no claims to ownership and no profit. I’m just borrowing them to express my opinions to the world.

Statistically speaking, a press conference involving the Avengers, in whole or in part, was rarely a good idea. 

Thor found reporters to be invasive and irritating, and said as much, frequently and at great volume. Natasha simply glowered at whichever one happened to have offended her the most in the past three minutes in a manner that threatened grievous bodily harm. Clint alternately shot spitballs, nonsense, or murderous glares at them, depending on his mood. Bruce’s reaction need not be mentioned.

All in all, the two Avengers that could - occasionally - be trusted in front of the cameras were Steve Rogers, who tended to speak without thinking when he was overwhelmed, and Tony Stark, who thought carefully about exactly what he _shouldn’t_ say, and said it. 

It was for those reasons, as well as a multitude more, that at least one certified SHIELD handler was present at every interview or press conference the Avengers were subjected to. It didn’t guarantee good behavior - Tony’s ‘I am Iron Man!’ debacle was proof enough of that - but it did give SHIELD an agent or six on the ground if they needed to stage a fast cover-up or PR campaign. 

Jasper Sitwell had drawn the short straw on attending today’s conference. He was perfectly aware that the drawing had been rigged; Coulson was still recovering, Hill had a ship to run, and Fury flatly refused to babysit, which left Sitwell as the only handler with the clearance level required for the job. 

None of this made him feel better about his current position, backside going numb on a dented metal folding chair, hands neatly folded on the cheap blue paper tablecloth, fingers clenching tight enough to white the skin over his knuckles in an attempt to refrain from sucker-punching Stark, who was muttering endlessly beside him. 

“....really, a little consideration, it’s not like I’m asking for a velvet-upholstered recliner here, but this thing is ridiculous, I’m not going to be able to feel my feet by the time I’m done, and if it’s creaking this much under my weight it’s never going to be able to support Captain Elephantine over there, would a couple more dollars on the chairs really have gone amiss?”

To Sitwell’s left, Captain Rogers was sitting serenely, his face composed under his mask, hands folded in a near-perfect imitation of Sitwell’s own position, the red leather of his gloves not quite touching the base of his microphone. To the hoard of reporters populating the room, he was as still as the ice that had kept him prisoner for so many years, but Jasper could feel the vibration of the Captain’s foot jiggling nervously, hidden by the tablecloth. 

“....and seriously, why does it have to be blue? Blue is a horrible color, doesn’t suit me at all, red is much more flattering, and it’s not as though it isn’t patriotic -”

“I am going,” Sitwell muttered, on a near-soundless exhale of breath, “to shoot him, just so that he will shut up.”

His eyes still facing straight forward, Rogers let his mouth twist into something between a smile and a grimace. “Do you actually think that would work?”

“...probably not,” Sitwell sighed, then rapped his fist on the table to catch the attention of the milling reporters. He didn’t have a microphone - the press wasn’t here to listen to him - but he didn’t need one. Pushing back his chair, he stood up and called the reporters to attention, ordered them to their seats and reminded them of the rules. One question per, wait to be called on, no interruptions, and no questions on the subject of sex. 

It felt a lot like being a substitute teacher in a middle school. 

The first twenty minutes of the conference went by with unnerving ease. The reporters were polite, their questions minimally invasive and mostly pertinent, and Stark and Rogers were in fine form. 

It was inevitable that something would turn upside-down, but it was so subtle that Jasper only registered the question when it was already hanging above them, nearly tangible in its weight. 

_“Captain America, what do you think of homosexuals?”_

Rogers, to his credit, merely blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I said,” the reporter repeated, even as Jasper’s hands were moving out to the sides, reaching for the kill switches on the microphones, ready to declare the interview over on the bounds of an inappropriate question, “what do you think of homosexuals?”

Rogers’ hand darted out, red leather squeaking softly as his fingers closed with startling gentleness around Sitwell’s wrist, halting his fingers a few inches from the button at the base of his mic. 

The Captain’s eyes had never left the reporter. “I heard you just fine the first time, miss. I just didn’t understand the question. What do I think of homosexuals? They’re people. I think no less and no more of them than I do of any other person, and I’m really not sure what you’re asking. What am I supposed to think of them?”

One of the reporters behind her - conservative talk radio, Sitwell recognized in exasperation - bolted to his feet, pen waving in the air. “Captain America, you were raised to believe in God-fearing morals, how can you not be disgusted by the degradation of America since your day?”   


“The _degradation_?” Rogers echoed, his tone incredulous. “Son, sit down and listen to me a second. A whole lot of years ago, a group of men a lot smarter than you or me picked me to be Captain America, because I told them I didn’t like bullies. And they sent me overseas to fight the Nazis, because the Nazis had looked at a group of people, decided that they didn’t like one aspect of those people’s intrinsic identity, and they decided to persecute them for that one aspect, just because they thought they were better than everyone else.” A pause. “Does that sound familiar to you?”

“Captain.” A hand went up in the first row, and the reporter continued without actually waiting to be called on. “You’re comparing homophobic bigots to Nazis?”

“Quite frankly, I’m not seeing a great deal of difference between the two. They’re both an exercise in self-centered arrogance at the expense of other people. They both cause pain, and they both cost lives.”

Leaning forward, the Captain spoke into his microphone with steady, deliberate words. “Since I woke up in this century, people have called me naive. Old-fashioned. Out of date.”

Stark winced. 

“Maybe they’re right. I’m not used to this time yet. I’ve carried a lot of things with me from the 1940s - like my personal belief in equality, respect, and human decency. And if those are old-fashioned, then -”

“Maybe we need a little old-fashioned sometimes,” Stark interrupted, a broad grin creasing his face, and Rogers nodded back, smiling. 

“Aaand that’ll do us for today, thank you all for coming, we’ll see you after the next disaster,” Stark laughed into his microphone, waving the last-minute barrage of questions away. “No, seriously, go, we’re done here, goodbye, drive safely, love your freedoms and significant others and yadda yadda.”

Jasper’s phone was lighting up with texts before the last of the reporters had even shuffled out. The first one in line was from Coulson, who had no doubt been watching the conference over a live feed. 

_‘Would you be offended if Clint and I ask Cap to be best man instead of you?'_

Shaking with laughter as he typed his response - _sure, let him deal with the bachelor party_ \- Jasper shook his head in amazement. 

A press conference involving the Avengers was rarely a good idea.

Sometimes, it was a great one.


End file.
